


words of love along the wires

by Skylark



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Community: xmen_firstkink, M/M, Scent memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-20
Updated: 2011-06-20
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/397.html?thread=139405#t139405">this prompt</a>: "Post movie, Charles occasionally finds that pieces of his wardrobe go missing, but he always finds them again, neatly folded with the rest of the the fresh laundry... In actuality, Erik misses Charles's scent and sends Azazel to pinch articles from Charles's closet when he's feeling particularly moody."</p>
            </blockquote>





	words of love along the wires

**Author's Note:**

> There is a [podfic](http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/1160528.html) made by the very kind [rhea314](http://rhea314.livejournal.com), and a [Chinese translation](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=29312&extra=page%3D1) courtesy of [twilight_s](http://twilight_s.livejournal.com) (forum account required).

Their first night together is after the satellite. It's burned into his memory—soft heat and softer lips; an accented voice, gently breathless; Charles's scent soaking into his skin and the sheets, lacing every breath Erik takes.

He wakes when Charles leaves in the middle of the night, but he's quieted by a soft mental touch: _Go back to sleep, Erik_. Not a compulsion, just words. Beneath it is the wry intimation that there's always tomorrow.

Erik rolls over and presses his cheek into the pillowcase, where the smell of Charles's cologne mixes with the faint scent of sex. His eyes close and he sleeps better than he has in years.

It all feels so long ago, now.

\--

Eventually, Erik and Mystique both admit that they've left things behind that they can't do without. Not metaphysical things; they mean personal articles, handwritten notes, practical things that can't be repurchased.

Erik sends Azazel to Westchester with two lists and a letter asking for a momentary truce, knowing that Charles will understand. Azazel comes back with a suitcase for each of them.

Mystique's is heavier than his, and larger. She runs her fingers over its polished surface like it's an old friend. Erik's suitcase is hard and black with gold trim, worn around the edges as if it's seen some heavy use. When he opens it in his room, he finds small initials monogrammed into the blue silk lining: _CFX_.

Inside, there are articles of clothing, some files and notebooks, his watch, and a few other items, all neatly packed. He unfolds an undershirt and a familiar scent rises from it. He feels like he's been punched in the stomach.

He should have expected Charles to be courteous enough to have Erik's things washed before he returned them—that Charles would use his own detergent.

Erik wears the undershirt to bed. His night is full of dreams.

\--

After several months, he wears every bit of clothing he owns and the suitcase stands empty. At the bottom he finds a small note, written in a familiar hand: _I hope you're doing well._ (The stationery is odorless. His life is hardly a romance novel, after all.)

Although he packs his clothing back inside of the suitcase, all he smells is foreign soap and hard water. He sighs and tucks the note between two turtlenecks.

\--

The good thing about Azazel is that he doesn't ask unimportant questions.

"Does it matter what I take?"

"No," Erik replies, "—Yes. Something inexpensive." Azazel bows his head and disappears in a wisp of smoke.

A few hours later, he sets a folded gray sweatshirt on Erik's desk.

"Is there anything else?" he asks.

Erik swallows down a lump in his throat. "No," he says, "That's all."

  
After Azazel leaves, Erik runs his fingers over the faded cloth as if he's petting a cat, or a familiar head of dark brown hair.

\--

They are often on missions or on the run, and the two states of existence are so closely related that it's hard to tell when one ends and the other begins. Sometimes they live in luxury, three-piece suits and penthouse suites, especially once he teaches Mystique a few languages and how to pick locks. But sometimes they're running hard with an army on their tail, with Azazel unconscious and Emma refracting shards of light as as she covers their retreat, and the luxury must be put on hold.

During one of those more dangerous times, Erik listens to the rain beat down outside the cave's damp mouth. Riptide sleeps to his left and Mystique, head resting on his shoulder, is to his right. A pounding headache keeps his eyes open.

His only sources of comfort are his unshakable ideals and the soft, sweet-smelling cotton beneath his head—his hopes for the future and his memories of the past.

\--

There are other reminders, too: times when Emma reports failure and sends images of Charles to his mind's eye, and the letters between Hank and Mystique that he pretends not to notice.

More rarely, there's a brush of Charles's mind against his own. It always sends a thrill down his spine, and he has to fight not to reach back.

Charles keeps himself shielded and never tries to intrude. It's just a touch, making sure Erik is still there.

 _I hope you're doing well,_ he says once, echoing the note he sent well over two years ago.

 _I am,_ Erik thinks, and Charles retreats before he can add, _Are you?_

Azazel always visits the mansion after Charles makes contact. Erik wonders if Charles sees a pattern.

  
\--

Erik knows it's a weakness, something that he must wean himself away from. He forces himself to go without the stolen comfort for longer and longer: two months, then three.

Still, Azazel returns t-shirts and brings back cardigans, and Erik sleeps pressed against them, feels long-tensed muscles relaxing as he inhales. A feeling of peace steals over him, followed by loss.

Scent memory, he knows, is one of the oldest and most primal parts of the brain. Forgetting will take a very long time.

\--

The next time Charles makes contact, he seems to hesitate.

 _I have a presentation tomorrow,_ he finally says, neutral. _That's my favorite shirt._

Erik's stunned silence lasts for so long that Charles sends a questioning flicker.

 _I'm sorry,_ he manages, though it's not enough.

There's a breath of something that feels almost wistful. _Just—not that one,_ Charles says quietly, and vanishes.

  
He tells Azazel not to bring anything back.

\--

Months later, Erik reaches out and stammers _Wait._

Charles stops, caught just before leaving.

 _Pawn to e4,_ he says, and swallows at the thundering silence in his head.

Then: _Pawn to e5._

_Knight to f3._

_Knight to c6—_

_Wait,_ Erik says, _I have to get a chessboard._

Charles laughs, and Erik takes a sharp breath. That, too, is something he's missed.

 _Me, too,_ Charles says.

**Author's Note:**

> —Title is from "Tonight" by Stars.  
> —The reason that Charles can reach Erik when he's so far away, and the reason he contacts Erik so rarely (besides personal ones), is because he only contacts him when he's using Cerebro.  
> —Because OP asked, and many other people seemed interested, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/226484#charlesshirt) is the story of why it's Charles's favorite shirt.  
> —The chess opening at the end is called [Giuoco Piano](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giuoco_Piano).
> 
> // written 13 Jun 2011 to 14 Jun 2011


End file.
